( She weeps. It isn't in tears unseen or the rasping hoarseness of a voice, wind-whipped and drowned amid the brutal unambiguity of dragon wings, rains of steel and arrow —

But in the timid, choked, visceral convulsions of her gut, beneath his arms. How she tightens and loosens and makes room within herself for this small, sour thing, her fear. Like a child with a toy she cannot surrender, hands stiff and nails blunt in the keeping of it.

Courtesy suggests he should not say nothing. The less he acknowledges, the less he shames. Emilia has earned the right of the empty, tidal relief that comes of surviving the impossible, of winning over overwhelming odds.

And yet he speaks, sluggish and still cold, like he might have to his son once, to his rabbits now. Clumsy. ) ...shhhhhh. I am sorry. I am sorry.

( What for? He cannot remember. Some cruel and careless thing, his doing. His life, perhaps. The part and whole of his existence. What does it matter, in the end? At times, all men and women require is to be heard. )

You are safe. I am sorry.